


long for this world

by renaissance



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canonical Character Death, Druids, Gothic, M/M, Necromancy, Non-Canonical Character Undeath, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11545038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: Arthur learns the hard way that magic was real all along, and now he's stuck with a thousand-year-old house guest who seems determined to make his life a living hell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> and now for something completely different

Categorically, Arthur is not allowed to throw parties at home. This isn’t because his father is some kind of restrictive helicopter parent. Quite the opposite, in fact—Arthur gets away with pretty much whatever he pleases, by virtue of being the son of someone very rich and very powerful, the sort of person who can wipe a digression from the public consciousness with the stroke of a pen. No, he’s not allowed to throw parties at home because he lives in a 16th century mansion that has undergone extensive renovations and employs hundreds of staff to maintain its facade as well as it does, on a site that’s been in continuous use and hasn’t changed hands since the Norman conquest. It would be such a pity if anything were to happen to it.

Consequently, no-one is allowed to know that Arthur is throwing a party at home. Word has a way of spreading, but when you’re the son of someone as rich and powerful as Arthur is, you can keep people quiet for the right amount of money. His father’s credit card is also good for an obscene amount of alcohol, a new sound system, and a DJ to pick the music.

All of it, an obfuscation, a masterclass in distraction.

Arthur does the rounds and makes sure his appearance is well-noted, and then just after eleven he ducks out, unnoticed, and heads upstairs to his half-sister’s bedroom.

It’s been several centuries since it was at its peak, but Morgana is keeping the gothic tradition well and truly alive. Her bedroom is one of the highest in the mansion, overlooking the lake, and the black lace curtains are drawn during the day to maintain a suitable level of mystique. At night, though, she opens them—even as Arthur creaks past the heavy oak doors and the ancient floorboards, he can see the moon shimmering on open water and the dark forest in the distance, the stars above.

Morgana and Gwen are already there, dressed in black.

“Well?” Arthur asks. “Is everything ready?”

“You’re underdressed,” Morgana says, unimpressed.

“I wasn’t aware that we were attending a funeral,” Arthur snaps.

Gwen rolls her eyes, but her tone remains as kind as always when she says, “It’s the same principle. When dealing with the dead, one must always be respectful.”

“So you can’t show up to a graveyard looking like a frat boy,” Morgana translates. “Lucky for you, I have some options on hand.”

She opens one of her blackened wood wardrobes with a flourish and gestures to a row of robes of varying lengths and cuts.

“Take your pick.”

Arthur has learnt not to question Morgana when it comes to the occult, so he dutifully takes the least offensive robe and slips it on over his polo and chinos. God, but it’s pretentious. He heaves a sigh. “Okay. What next?”

“We have to prepare the items we’ll need for the spell,” Gwen says. “It shouldn’t be much more than what we’ve already collated.” She ticks them off on her fingers as she counts. “A dozen wilted roses; a poultice of kitchen herbs with no more than one sprig of lavender added; animal bones, bare for at least a year; five white wax candles; and…”

“A personal item belonging to the deceased,” Morgana completes, “of great importance to them.”

This is Arthur’s cue. He reaches into the pocket of his chinos and pulls out a small jewellery box. Inside is a silver chain with an amulet hanging off the end, small stones of labradorite woven into silver that forms an intricate Celtic design. It was his mother’s favourite necklace—she was wearing it when she died.

He opens the box.

“Oh, Arthur,” Morgana says.

“Forget it,” he says. “I mean it, Morgana—don’t say a damn thing. Let’s just go.”

So, in silence, they go.

They take the back passage out of the house, through the staff corridors and out the kitchen door. The graveyard is only a short walk away, but far enough that no-one back at the mansion will notice them. Under a stone archway, through a copse of trees, and there it is: the old, disused church of Pendragon parish, crumbling stone walls and vines growing through the cracks. Arthur has no light, because modern technology is forbidden near the site of the spell. The path he follows is easy enough—he knows this place well in daylight—but at night the uneven ground feels littered with trip hazards.

The family mausoleum is beneath the church, has been since the industrial revolution, when all the workers moved to the cities and attendance dwindled so low that the lord of the manor at the time, Godric Pendragon, no longer saw fit to maintain it. But scattered around the churchyard are the graves of vassals, older and lesser Pendragons, and Arthur’s even heard that there are some servants buried in unmarked graves.

“We shouldn’t go all the way into the mausoleum,” Arthur says. “Father has it cleaned regularly. He’ll know if it’s disturbed—anyway, I don’t fancy picking the lock. Can we perform the ritual from up here?”

“So long as we’re directly above her final resting place,” Gwen says.

Morgana nods. “That’s not hard. I know exactly which way you turn to find her once you’re underground. We’ll have to go inside the church, but that’s all.”

Stepping through the church’s threshold in the depths of a dark night feels like crossing a border, a shift in the air pressure, a drop in the temperature—in many ways, already through the veil. There are no more pews inside the old church, just the stone altarpiece and a baptismal font. Morgana paces across the mossy floor until she’s certain they’re above Ygraine Pendragon’s grave.

“Here.”

The preparations begin immediately; the spell is very specific in that it must be performed at midnight under a full moon. Morgana draws a pentagram with the poultice of spices, laying the lavender at its north axis, then connects the points of the stars into a circle. At each point, she places the candles, and lights them. Meanwhile, Gwen scatters the petals from the dead roses and the animal bones around the circle. Arthur stands around uselessly, feeling like a total twat in his robe, until he’s called upon.

“Arthur, the necklace,” Morgana commands.

“Maybe we should let him put it down,” Gwen says, laying a hand on Morgana’s arm.

Morgana considers this for a moment. “I suppose it might strengthen the connection. Alright, Arthur, it goes in the middle of the pentagram. Don’t fuck it up. This is the important part.”

Invested as he is in the outcome of this spell, Arthur couldn’t fuck it up if he tried. The silver of the necklace is ancient and tarnished beneath his fingers as he places it down on ground that suddenly feels a lot more sacred than it always has.

“I swear to god, Morgana,” he says, “if this doesn’t work…”

But he can’t finish the threat. His watch—an old wind-up from his father’s collection—ticks ever closer to midnight.

Gwen clears her throat. “By no blood am I connected to the name I cannot speak. By my blood as a druid, I ask you to return the nameless dead, the soul I stand above and whose possessions I offer as a memento of its time alive. By the blood of this soul and those who loved it, return it to life!”

And then… nothing.

Arthur hadn’t expected this to work. Not really. Magic, hocus pocus—that’s all Morgana’s domain, her and Gwen and their goth crowd from school they still keep up with. Arthur’s much more down to earth. Never believed in any of it, really. But… there had been the chance, the faintest glimmer of hope, that he might see his mother again. And with his mother back, his father would be less withdrawn, and Morgana would feel more at home—she’d always gotten on better with Ygraine than Uther—and they’d be a family again, and was that too much to ask?

But there’s no such thing as magic.

Then, the ground shakes. The ground shakes and rends itself apart and Arthur thinks he’s going to be swallowed whole. He hears the church stones crumble, wonders if it’s affecting the mansion too, and then—

—everything goes still.

The dust settles, and the church is standing as it ever has. Arthur is shaken; rubbing his eyes, he dimly registers some sort of commotion going on around him. Two people moving. Three? When he readjusts, he looks to the centre of the circle, or where he remembers it being. Three people—it’s too good to be true—could it be his mother?

His eyes settle on a figure, but it’s not his mother. It’s a lanky teenage boy dressed in rags, messy hair falling over his face, Arthur’s mother’s amulet around his neck.

Arthur sees red. “Who the fuck are _you_?”

Some local kid perving on Pendragon grounds? A burglar? A rival necromanc—no, that’s stupid.

“I’m—” the boy says. He seems surprised to hear are words coming out of his mouth, raising one hand to his lips. “I’m Merlin.”

“Oh, _Merlin_ , well now that’s all cleared up, maybe you could clear off, hmm?” Arthur takes a step forward, ready to be as imposing as he needs to be. He has an inch on this Merlin character, at least. “You’re trespassing on private property.”

Merlin blinks. “Trespassing? I—live here. I think.”

“You do not,” Arthur says, incredulous. “I know everyone who lives here, because there are only _three_ of us. And anyway, how can you explain away the fact that you were trying to steal my mother’s necklace?”

“Oh, no,” Morgana says. “Arthur—”

“Three people?” Merlin says. “That can’t be right.”

“Well, it is,” Arthur says.

Merlin narrows his eyes. “And anyway, this is my necklace.”

“Your—”

“Merlin,” Gwen says, one hand on his shoulder, “think very carefully—how did you get here?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says. He clasps Arthur’s mother’s pendant between his fingers. “The last thing I remember is someone coming at me with a knife, and then—”

His fingers stray downwards, searching for a rip in his shirt. There’s an awful sinking feeling in the pit of Arthur’s stomach as Merlin finds the rip, pulling the brittle fabric of his shirt a little further apart.

“You died,” Morgana says wonderingly, tactlessly.

“Impossible,” Arthur says, before he can help himself, despite the fact that he knows it’s true. Powerful, dangerous magic—this is exactly the sort of thing that happens when you play around with it.

They’ve brought back the wrong person.

Arthur sits down. He _needs_ to sit down. The worst case scenario—really, what he’d expected to happen—had been that magic was a load of bullshit and Arthur got some sort of closure, because they’d really never be able to bring his mother back. But now he knows it’s possible—there’s an undead boy standing in front of him. So why can’t it be his mother?

“You said this necklace was yours,” Gwen says to Merlin. “Where did you get it?”

“It was my mother’s,” Merlin says. “She’s—”

He doesn’t continue that. He sits down too, and Gwen and Morgana follow, forming their own circle around the pentagram.

Morgana is still fixated on Merlin’s death. “When did you die?” she asks him. “What year? Where were you? Who were—sorry, who _are_ you that the Pendragons buried you in their church?”

“Church?” Merlin casts his eyes around the ruins. “They wouldn’t have buried me in a—I’m just a servant. I work in the kitchens. I was—foraging, for herbs, for dinner, when the raiders came. A whole party of them. When you say what year—”

“It’s 2015,” Arthur says, frustrated. “Oh, come on, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Merlin died right here, in the forest, before there was even a church, and they didn’t bother to bury him, just let him decompose where he lay.”

 _And now he’s our problem,_ Arthur doesn’t say.

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Merlin says. “Just the person I needed to liven up my—uh, my resurrection, I guess.”

“That’s another thing,” Arthur says. “If you died centuries ago, why are you speaking modern English?”

“The dead rise speaking the tongue spoken in the spell,” Gwen says, like she’s quoting something.

Merlin swivels to look at her, eyes wide. “You used a spell to bring me back to life?”

“We were _trying_ to bring my mother back to life,” Arthur snaps. “Apparently necromancy isn’t too good at picking up on intention.”

“The only way this could’ve happened is if Merlin’s final resting place was precisely beneath Ygraine’s,” Morgana says. “And if her necklace had a much more ancient providence than it first seemed to. In other words: one hell of a coincidence.”

“Druid magic isn’t precise by nature,” Gwen says. “It’s all about trusting that you’ve performed your magic in the most precise conditions possible.”

Merlin looks aghast. “You’re druids too? Are you allowed to practice openly?”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Arthur says, abruptly getting to his feet.

They can sit here and talk about magic all they like. Arthur has a party to host, among other things. He has a host of worries he wants to forget about, preferably with the aid of alcohol. Before he leaves, he makes sure dramatically rip Morgana’s stupid black robe from his shoulders and throw it into the dirt. He kicks it, for good measure. Morgana calls out for him to wait, but by then he’s already out of the church. It’s summer-night cool, but somehow the air in the church had been far cooler than it is outside. He relaxes against a crumbling stone wall, shoulders slumping.

There’s still conversation from inside the church. A moment, later, footsteps, and Gwen joins Arthur.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “It’s my own fault for believing this stupid magic would work in the first place.”

Gwen laughs, a puff of her breath hanging in the frosty night air. “So you mean you blame Morgana.”

She can see through him too easily. “I just—”

“I know,” Gwen says. “You wanted your mother back, and magic offered you that hope. To be honest, I didn’t even think the spell would work. Morgana puts a lot more faith in druidism—just listen to her in there, talking poor Merlin’s ear off.”

“He said he’s also a druid,” Arthur says.

Gwen hums. “Which means he can help us next time.”

“Next time?”

“If the spell worked once, it can work again,” Gwen says. “We’ll have to wait until the next full moon, but… I believe it now, Arthur. I _know_ we can bring your mother back.”

Arthur breathes in deep. He’s seen the evidence. There’s a boy standing in that church who had been dead for centuries, brought back to life by druid magic. But—

“We don’t know how alive Merlin is,” Arthur says. “Maybe he’s only here temporarily, and after a while he’ll just… die again. I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Gwen says. “So we need to look after him until we’ve worked that out. The least you could do is be kind to him. Imagine what he’s going through right now.”

“Imagine what _I’m_ going through,” Arthur says, scowling.

He does see the merit in what Gwen’s saying, though. They’ve got no more hope with the magic, for now, but they still have to deal with the consequences. If that means harbouring a walking, talking corpse, then that’s what they have to do.

Arthur looks back into the church. Morgana and Merlin are standing up now, walking out of the church. Merlin is wearing the robe that Arthur discarded, covered in a layer of dust now, and Arthur feels a pang of sympathy. In his time, Merlin would’ve been a nobody next to a Pendragon, druid or otherwise. And now he’s wearing a filthy hand-me-down from one.

“Oh, he didn’t leave,” Merlin says, gesturing to Arthur with a thumb. “The mouthy one.”

All of Arthur’s sympathy leaves in an instant.

“I must apologise for my half-brother,” Morgana says. “Arthur is… not a druid, shall we say.”

“I can tell,” Merlin says. “Look at what he’s wearing. What colour is that top? Salmon?”

“You don’t even know what that _is_ ,” Arthur says. This is an utter affront. “Salmon wasn’t a colour when you were alive.”

“This may surprise you to learn, but humans have been capable of comparing one thing to another since long before someone decided shirts should be fish-coloured,” Merlin says.

“Also, Merlin possesses the exact same vocabulary that I do,” Gwen says, “since I spoke the incantation. It’s lucky I did; I don’t think Merlin wants to sound like a rich kid.”

It’s the closest she can get to being cheeky. Arthur appreciates that she’s trying, but this is neither the time nor place for humour.

He leads the pack as they walk back to the mansion, hands stuffed into his pockets. Merlin is getting on with Gwen and Morgana like a house on fire, which is all well and good for them, since they weren’t the ones expecting to be reunited with their dead mother this evening. And neither of them are particularly practical—they just want to get to know the dead boy. Okay, well, let them. Arthur doesn’t care. He’ll deal with this the way a true Pendragon would: with a stiff upper lip and lots of money.

They sneak back in through the servants’ entrance. “Man, this place has changed since I was, y’know, alive,” Merlin comments. “Castle Pendragon, right? Sounds like there’s a party going on.”

“There is,” Morgana says. “I convinced Arthur to host one tonight so that we all had an alibi in case the spell went wrong.”

“And I agreed to it as a distraction,” Arthur says. “Now, Merlin, we’ll need to find a place for you to sleep. There’s a spare room near mine which—”

“Hold on,” Merlin says, “you’re a Pendragon?”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Why else do you think I’m here? This is private property, you know. Gwen is a friend, so she’s allowed here, but outside the ballroom where the party’s going on, we have guards to make sure no-one trespasses.”

“Right,” Merlin says. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. Arthur Pendragon is—it was the name of the lord of the manor’s son when I was alive. Um, the first time I was alive.”

“Yes, I understood that much,” Arthur says.

“Rich people like to keep names in the family,” Gwen says. “But, that’s good that you remember an Arthur. That will help us work out roughly what century you’re from.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Morgana says. “There have been a _lot_ of Arthur Pendragons.”

“And only this one is kind enough to let a servant sleep inside the mansion,” Arthur says, “so don’t forget that. You need clothes, too—I’ll lend you some of mine. And an education. We’ll see about getting you online, maybe sit you down with Wikipedia for an afternoon so you can catch up on all the history you’ve missed.”

“It’s not like I was allowed to learn history, as a servant,” Merlin says.

“Maybe you could come to some classes with me when semester starts up again,” Gwen says. “How old are you?”

“Good question,” Merlin says.

“Young enough,” Morgana says. “Maybe we can get you a summer job. I’d invite you to work as a footman or something, but a place like this is rather outside your pay grade until you freshen up a bit.”

Merlin huffs. “God, the _nobility_. I guess some things never change.”

They reach the top floor corridor, where his and Morgana’s bedrooms are. Arthur stops by his room to pick out some clothes for Merlin, far to the back of his walk-in wardrobe where the things that are just a bit too small for him are hiding. He makes sure to choose the ugliest clothes he can find. Merlin doesn’t deserve to wear salmon.

When he’s done, he finds the others in the room across the hall, making themselves at home on the canopy bed like some sort of abjectly teenage slumber party. Arthur has little to no time for such nonsense—he walks right up to them and dumps the clothes on the bed.

“So you can blend in,” he says to Merlin.

Gwen and Morgana give him twin disapproving looks, because they knew Arthur when he was the right size to wear these clothes, but Merlin is delighted.

“Fashion in the future is strange,” he says. “Your trousers are so _tight_. Look at this!”

He holds up the leg of a pair of jeans that once accompanied Arthur through his fleeting emo phase.

“The first thing you’ll have to do if you want to blend in is stop getting so excited by everything,” Arthur says. “And don’t tell me it’s only natural. You’re dead, not stupid.”

“You don’t know that,” Merlin says. “I could be stupid.”

Arthur’s lips harden into a frown. This is a distraction, and he is a Pendragon. He goes into business mode.

“I am letting you stay in my home out of the goodness of my heart. If my father catches wind of the fact that you’re here, he will kick you onto the streets, and then he will ruin my life in whichever cruel and unusual way he sees fit. In the event that this comes to pass, I would much rather call you a friend from school, not a tenth century servant I magicked out of the ground one night. Is that clear?”

Merlin is quiet for a long while before he replies. “Yeah. Very clear. But when I’m around you, don’t expect me to act cowed just because I used to be your servant, rich boy.”

“This is like something out of a fucking nightmare,” Arthur says. The last few hours are catching up to him, and all he wants to do is lie down and pretend none of it ever happened, nor will it continue to happen. “I’m going to bed.”

On his way out, he could swear he hears Merlin say, “What a prat.”

Arthur shakes his head. He’ll let it go a few days, help Merlin land on his feet in the future, and then send him out into the world. If he’s being kind, it’ll be more than a few days—maybe a month, until the next full moon when they can cast the spell. And after that, Arthur will never have to think about the boy who arrived in his mother’s place again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mainly posting this in an attempt to motivate myself to keep writing it. which, i definitely will, but don't expect a regular update schedule and hopefully we'll all be pleasantly surprised!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's still here, i apologise for taking eight months to update this fic. the muse wants what the muse wants. don't @ me
> 
> i'm not going to make any promises about updating (ha ha ha) but i am working to a bit more of a chapter plan now, which can only be good news. also, i had to make some fairly minor edits to the last chapter, so it might be worth rereading if you uhhh read it eight months ago i guess. sorry again! okay! enjoy!

Arthur is not avoiding Merlin—an accusation Gwen levels at him the next evening, which is ridiculous, because Merlin has literally existed for less than twenty-four hours, and what is Gwen still doing in his house?—he’s just been busy, he tells Gwen indignantly. In the twenty-odd hours that Merlin has existed, Arthur has re-enrolled in his degree for the next year, selected all his subjects, and drawn up a timetable, hand-written and colour-coded with a pack of highlighters he hadn’t touched since his A levels. He’s also made half a dozen business calls for Pendragon LLC, arranged two client dinners, and reordered his Filofax—twice.

“So you’re telling me you did all that because you’re _not_ avoiding Merlin?” Gwen raises one eyebrow in the very picture of disbelief. “Arthur, come on.”

“Makes sense,” he says, “that in order to avoid someone, I didn’t just _leave the house_.”

Gwen purses her lips. She’s almost convinced by Arthur’s argument, but then, she’s known him for too long to really fall for it. “You don’t avoid people by doing nothing. You avoid people by doing everything.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” Arthur says again.

But if he _was_ avoiding Merlin, then could Gwen really blame him? After all, it had been a rude bloody shock to go out into the ruined old church expecting to raise his mother from the dead and ending up with—

“What, Arthur’s avoiding me?” Merlin asks, poking his head through the door. “How come?”

“None of your business,” Arthur says, chucking a highlighter at Merlin’s head.

The highlighter sails to one side of Merlin and he catches it one-handed without even looking. Arthur could swear Merlin’s eyes flash gold as he does it. Must be a trick of the light; it’s not as though Merlin has particularly interesting eyes, anyway.

Gwen does a fist-pump. “Nice one. So you admit you’ve been avoiding him, Arthur?”

“No, Gwenevere, I’ve been drawing up a schedule for integrating the dead dickhead into society. What do you _think_ I’ve been doing?”

Actually, he had spent a few minutes on the phone to Lance, because owning up to a mate that he was about to do something illegal was preferable to googling “how to create entirely new fake identity from scratch” from his own IP address, and, after his father’s phone had been tapped by some journalist a few years back, he’d since made sure his mobile wasn’t compromised.

“I like your room,” Merlin says. “Not as, uh, Gothic revival as Morgana’s.”

“She let you stay in her room?” Now that surprises Arthur. “And again, I don’t care how much of Gwen’s vocabulary you possess, there is no _way_ you can understand the implications of comparing something to the Gothic revival period.”

“Wrong again, dipshit,” Merlin says, “because I spent the day on Wikipedia catching up on the last couple hundred years. Also, where the hell else was I meant to sleep?”

“Are you teaching him these words?” Arthur says to Gwen. And then, “Merlin—we’ll find you a guest room. It’s not like my father ventures outside his own quarters. I don’t want to impose Morgana on you for too long.”

“Aw, you do care,” Merlin says.

Arthur points a finger at him. “Don’t push it.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Gwen says pointedly, “I’ve been doing some preliminary research, and it seems like Merlin’s necklace is likely from around the eleventh century. Crazy, right?”

Merlin’s necklace, now, not Ygraine’s. “You came over just to tell me that?”

“There’s nothing more for me to do without access to your family’s private library.” Gwen half-smirks, but catches herself quickly and looks affronted at her own behaviour. “I mean—that is—we obviously won’t be doing that tonight. In the meantime, I thought we could go and get dinner. Expose Merlin to a bit of culture. I’m borrowing Lance’s car.”

“Who’s driving?” Arthur asks.

“Lance,” Gwen says. “He’s outside. Coming, Arthur?”

On the one hand, Arthur is busy not avoiding Merlin, among other things. On the other hand, the idea of a clueless druid in a restaurant is too funny to pass up.

“Yes, alright,” Arthur says. “Merlin—make yourself presentable.”

It turns out that Merlin doesn’t need to look presentable, though, because once they’re in the car Arthur learns they’re not going to a restaurant, but into town to meet the old gang at Nandos. Nandos on a Saturday night—pathetic. Arthur is wearing a polo shirt and pressed chinos and it’s warm out, not chilly like last night had been, and he feels overdressed on two fronts. Being packed into Lance’s car doesn’t help. Gwen takes the front seat, because she and Lance definitely aren’t dating, and Arthur’s taking up as much space as he can in the back corner, with Morgana in between him and Merlin.

Merlin is absolutely fascinated by the car. “And you’re sure this thing doesn’t run off magic?”

“Quite sure,” Lance says. He’s under the impression that Merlin is just one of Morgana’s eccentric mates from the coven, or whatever, and if he makes the connection between Merlin and Arthur’s questions earlier, he very politely doesn’t say anything. “It’s, uh, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of electricity—”

“He’s being facetious,” Gwen says, stifling a giggle. “Merlin, come on. Behave.”

Lance clicks his tongue. “Never met anybody called _Merlin_ before. Very old school.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says, not a hint of umbrage in his tone.

Out of the corner of her eye, Morgana shoots Arthur a look, although he’s not sure what he’s done to deserve it. _He_ hasn’t said anything. Fortunately for Arthur and his pride, Merlin is perfectly good at digging his own grave.

“So what did you say this place we were going to was called again?”

“Nandos,” Gwen says gently. “It’s a chicken restaurant.”

Arthur scoffs. “ _Restaurant_. It’s fast food. It’s crap for the masses.”

“Not all of us can afford our own chef,” Lance says. “Ignore him, Merlin.”

“I always do,” Merlin says. He and Lance share a grin.

“I have known you for less than a day,” Arthur reminds him. “I’m sure you think you’re being quite amusing by acting as though we’re old friends, but your words have a quantifiably zero-sum effect on me.”

“Well, I’m enjoying this,” Lance says, and Arthur wants to punch him, because he knows exactly what Lance is getting at. They’ve done this before—Arthur meets someone and takes an instant dislike to them, and Lance insists that it’s because this is how Arthur shows affection to people, and starts taking bets on how long until it turns into flirting. He’s got a point; it happened with Gwaine, and look where that almost went. But Lance wouldn’t be up to his old tricks if he knew what Merlin really was.

Either way, Arthur keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the journey, to ensure Lance doesn’t try it again. The trip from country to town takes them through tree-lined roads and past fields, into the outer suburbs and finally to a parking lot just outside the town centre. This part of town is a dedicated relic of the last century; the concrete hasn't worn well with the English weather, the pavements are dirty, and the shopfronts are maintained by people who don't know that graphic design is now something people study at universities. Simply put, it’s a dump.

Which, of course, means that Merlin is entirely taken with it.

“Look at this, Gwen! What do you call this?”

“That’s a bollard,” she says, amused, while Lance looks on with his mouth hanging open.

“Of course.” It’s a three-foot pebblecrete monstrosity, and Merlin runs his hands over its rough surface like it’s a priceless relic. “I love it.”

Nobody can really say anything to that.

Merlin, as it turns out, has astonishingly bad taste in just about everything. They pass an old council building done in the brutalist style, and Merlin spends a good five minutes cooing over it. He pauses at a vintage clothing store and insists on buying the most hideous bomber jacket Arthur has ever seen. This comes with a promise from Morgana to take him shopping properly, and Arthur can only imagine what crimes against fashion will be committed. He tries not to think about it.

Distraction arrives outside Nando’s; Gwaine, Leon, and Percy are loitering by the window and passing a phone about. Lance is a good friend, but it’s only when they’re all there that everything slots into place. Arthur always misses their company when he’s off at uni. They’d all been at high school together, a closed group. It had been hard enough conceding to letting Morgana and Gwen hang out with them. Merlin was another story entirely.

“Arthur!” Gwaine slaps him on the back. Gwaine has never greeted him without a slap on the back; Arthur would be lost without it. “Long time no see. Where’ve you been all summer?”

“Here and there,” Arthur says vaguely. “Weren’t you at the party the other night?”

“I got in late; you must’ve turned in by then. Hey, who’s your new friend?”

Gwaine’s voice is loud enough that this stills all peripheral conversation, and they turn to look at Merlin, who’s hovering awkwardly behind Gwen and Morgana.

“Not my friend,” Arthur says. “Morgana’s.”

Merlin’s whole demeanour changes from confused to lit up with a grin. “Yeah, don’t lump me in with that loser. I’m from, er, out of town. Morgana and Gwen have been showing me around.”

It’s like watching a flock of pigeons descend on a scrap of food. As soon as they’re looking for a table inside the Nandos, all of Arthur’s old friends are scrambling to sit closest to Merlin. He’s not that fascinating, is he? Arthur fumes and takes the aisle seat of the booth they’re squeezed into, and handles the order once everyone’s decided.

He’s waiting in line when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Mind if I join you?” Merlin says.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Not enjoying your fifteen minutes of fame?”

“Oh, no, I love it,” Merlin says. “Your friends are great. I don’t know why they like you. No, I’m here because I thought it might be a good idea to learn how to order at a restaurant—”

“Not a restaurant.”

“Whatever, dickhead. This is all new to me, and if I’m going to go on being alive in this weird future, I need to get good at it.”

“First I’m a dipshit, now I’m a dickhead,” Arthur says. “What else has Gwen been teaching you?”

Merlin purses his lips, like he’s holding something in. Arthur gives him a stare, and at last Merlin says, “What’s a twunk?”

If Arthur had been drinking, he would have spat it all over Merlin. If he had been driving, he might have crashed his car into a tree, and given that his untimely death would’ve saved him from undue mortification in a queue at a Nandos, he would be glad for it.

“That one’s not from Gwen,” Merlin adds. “Gwaine called you a twunk.”

“Jesus Christ. I was gone from the table for five seconds.”

“So what does it mean?”

“There is absolutely no way for me to explain that to you without making a complete arse of myself,” Arthur says. “Ask Gwaine. Good lord.”

At least, to Merlin’s credit, he’s smart enough to know when to let a topic drop. Arthur is pretty certain he’s bright red in the face, which ought to give Merlin a pretty good clue of what the word means. He puts on the Pendragon stoicism until they reach the counter, and tries to pretend Merlin isn’t watching him like a hawk the entire time. Surely there are better ways to learn how to be a functioning human being?

They get back to the table and Arthur is quite comfortable that his face is no longer doing the thing. Leon calls out, “Merlin!” and Percy gets up so that Merlin can squeeze in, and they’re back to chattering like old friends.

Arthur makes a point of sitting next to Gwaine. The booth is packed tight, and he hasn’t been this close to Gwaine since they hooked up at a new year’s eve shindig two and a half years ago. It had been mortifying on all counts—from Gwaine assuming Arthur was serious about it and explaining patiently that he didn’t do long-term relationships to Arthur, eighteen and stupid, making him sign an NDA the next day.

“Remember that contract?” Arthur says now, quietly enough that only Gwaine can hear. “Remember how we don’t even joke about it?”

“Remember how you’ve never dated anyone for more than three weeks?” Gwaine says, loud, because he evidently doesn’t care who hears. He lowers his voice to add, “A push in the right direction never hurts. He’s really Morgana’s friend?”

Arthur elbows him and makes sure it hurts. “I will pay you to shut up.”

“Oh, I know you will,” Gwaine says. He leans across the table. “Hey, Merlin, where did you say you’re from again?”

Merlin’s eyes go wide. “I’m, uh—”

“Milton Keynes, can you believe it,” Morgana says. Something nice and central; it suits the accent he inherited from Gwen. “Poor dear is embarrassed to own up to it. Well, wouldn’t you be?”

“I didn’t know you could actually be born in Milton Keynes,” Percy says.

“They got much of a scene there?” Gwaine asks.

“No, no scene,” Merlin says quickly. “No scene at all.”

Lance gives Arthur a proper look, which means he’s definitely worked it out. It doesn’t matter, Arthur tells himself, because in a few days’ time they’ll have a fake ID for Merlin and he really will be Morgana’s strange friend from Milton Keynes. They should take him there—he’ll love the architecture. Maybe if they cut Merlin adrift he’ll stop feeling like such a drain—and then, on the next full moon, Arthur will get Gwen to perform the spell again, and get his mother back for good.

By the time they’re done eating, Merlin has four new best friends and a light rain has started up outside. Arthur catches Merlin elbowing Gwen and whispering, “Does it rain in Milton Keynes?”

“All the time,” Gwen says.

Merlin frowns, and sticks the palms of his hands out discreetly, catching every passing drop. He does a very poor job of concealing his excitement. Did he think it didn't rain in the future? Arthur might have to give him lessons in deportment; this is just embarrassing.

As they part ways at the carpark, Gwaine slaps Merlin on the back so hard he nearly falls over. Definitely needs deportment lessons. “Percy’s throwing a pool party at his next weekend. You’ll be there, won't you, Merlin?”

“You know it,” Merlin says. “Pool as in swimming or as in the game with the balls and the sticks?”

The others laugh like this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, and Merlin glows under the attention. He seems perfectly content that nobody is answering his question. Arthur scoffs and looks away. He’s not falling for this charming fool schtick. Neither should Gwen and Morgana be—Arthur doesn't look at them in case Merlin’s won them over too.

Arthur sulks all the way back. He’s old enough to acknowledge that he’s a sulk, not old enough to want to do anything about it. He wonders if it’s still technically sulking if you’re also grieving. Not that he wants to call it grief, because that would mean conceding to Morgana’s assertions that he needs to see a grief counsellor, and that is _not_ happening.

“Well, how did you find that?” Gwen asks, once Lance has dropped them off back at the mansion. “Your first cheeky Nandos with the lads.”

“Why’s it cheeky?” Merlin asks, and then Arthur has to suffer through the most tedious conversation of his entire life, as Gwen and Morgana explain memes to Merlin while they walk from the driveway to the house.

Thankfully, Gwen leaves them there. “Elyan’s coming by to pick me up. I’ll wait outside.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur says. “Don’t want to stay for drinks?” Save him from the slow torture of being stuck in Merlin’s company?

Gwen gives him a funny look, and declines. Arthur is doomed. Or, he’s ready to accept that he’s doomed, until Morgana takes him by the elbow, looks Merlin square in the eyes, and says, “I need to have a word with Arthur alone. You can work on your readings in the meantime.”

Merlin looks bitter for about half a second before he does some expert feature-schooling and pisses off. Arthur is begrudgingly impressed.

Once they’re out of earshot, Arthur asks, “Readings, really? You’ve assigned him readings? Can he even read?”

“It seems like he can, and he’s not going to get anywhere if he doesn’t know his world history,” Morgana says. “Then I’ll get him onto maths. Now, listen, I’ve been consulting my grimoire—”

Arthur makes a face. “Would you stop calling it that?”

“Fine, I spoke to some people on the druidism forums. Nobody believed that we’d pulled it off, but the general consensus seems to be that, in theory, Merlin is here to stay.”

“Fantastic.”

“I can’t tell if that was sarcastic or not.”

“Bit of both,” Arthur says. “I don’t care for Merlin, but if it means I can bring back my mother…”

Morgana shoots a glance over her shoulder, as if she’s worried Merlin’s going to overhear them. “I’ve been thinking, maybe it’d be better if I perform the spell at the next full moon. We’ve worked out that Merlin speaks like Gwen because her voice was the first thing he heard in this new incarnation. What if that happened to Ygraine too?”

“I thought it was the vocabulary, not the whole deal,” Arthur says. “And, you know, that Merlin defaulted to Gwen’s accent because he wouldn’t have a comparable one of his own.”

“Interesting theory,” Morgana says. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

“You don’t have to do it, though, do you? I know you’re not technically related to her, but you did say the degree of detachment would work in our favour.”

“You’re just scared I’ll use the opportunity to raise a small army.”

“Yes, there is that.”

They stop in the corridor, glaring at each other. Morgana has a real knack for making Arthur wish he was an only child. Then again, she’s the older half-sibling, so it’s a futile wish. Arthur tries to focus on the tangible—he wishes instead that Morgana had never got involved in this whole druidism thing, had never dragged Gwen into it with her, that they’d never suggested it as a way to get Arthur out of his room after his mother’s death.

“For what it’s worth,” Morgana says, “she was my mother too, if not by blood. I wouldn’t abuse my power in this situation.”

“But you might in any other,” Arthur points out.

She punches him in the arm. “Oh, fuck off. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

So after a restless night’s sleep, when Arthur’s lying in bed somewhere in the vicinity of seven a.m. and he hears a knock on his door, he calls out, “Piss off, Morgana,” and rolls back over, burying his head between his pillows.

“Not Morgana,” comes Merlin's voice. “Can I… ?”

“Give me a second,” Arthur says, so of course Merlin gives him no time at all, and Arthur’s in the middle of tugging on a shirt when the door creaks open and Merlin steps gingerly in.

Arthur glares at him. “What do you want?”

“I have a… sort of sensitive question,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Trust me, I want to be here even less than you want me here, but it’s not something I can ask the others.”

“Spit it out, then.”

Merlin clears his throat. “Arthur, am I a twink?”

It’s way too early for this. “You came here just to ask me that? I’m not going to—”

“The internet says I might be,” Merlin plows on, “but I wanted an expert opinion. Hence, you know, why I had to come to you.”

And he has no phone or email address to contact Gwaine, whose fault this is in entirety. If nothing else, this realisation wakes Arthur up to the many complexities of creating a human being, bringing someone into existence from nothing. If this were the eleventh century they wouldn’t have to do anything, just say Merlin’s a peasant from a town over and no-one would ask questions. If this were the eleventh century, Merlin wouldn't be googling god knows what and barging into Arthur’s room to check if he’s a twink—which he is, but Arthur wonders how much of that is malnourishment, and how much is down to Merlin literally being a reanimated skeleton with flesh stuck on as an afterthought.

“You’re a nightmare,” Arthur says.

Merlin snorts. It’s objectively an ugly laugh. “But am I a twink too?”

Arthur is not going to dignify him with an answer. He is not. He is also not thinking about the fact that there were hot peasants in the eleventh century, or whenever they dredged Merlin up from. Because Merlin isn’t hot. That would be ridiculous.

Well. Maybe he is, a bit, in a purely objective sense, decent-looking. Not that Arthur is… looking.

“Forget it,” Merlin says, after Arthur’s been radio silencing his way through a blue screen of death for the most awkward minute of his life. “Do you have some way I can contact Gwaine? Carrier pigeon?”

Arthur imagines sending a carrier pigeon to Gwaine with a little slip of paper rolled around its leg and a message on it in the kind of handwriting you’d see on a manuscript painstakingly illuminated by a tonsured monk, reading, “Wouldſt thou conſider me to be a twinke? Encloſe thine reſponſe forthwith – Merlin.” He’s mixing his eras—Merlin and the monks would’ve spoken Old English—but the complete lunacy of the mental image is enough to bring Arthur back to himself.

“Carrier pigeon? I thought Morgana’s been exposing you to the internet. I’ll give you Gwaine’s bloody email address, if you two are destined for such a great friendship.”

“My follow-up question was going to be if you have some kind of mailman,” Merlin grumbles. “I know these words, but not what they mean. So are you going to tell me what ‘email’ is, or do I have to work it out for myself?”

“Brilliant idea, Merlin,” Arthur says. “Come back to me when you understand the basic principles of email and I’ll give you Gwaine’s address. Alright?”

Arthur grabs the nearest pillow off his bed and lobs it at Merlin. It’s a good throw, spot-on, but the pillow seems to change course last-minute, missing Merlin and landing harmlessly on the floor. Arthur must be more tired than he thought.

“Alright, alright” Merlin says. He pauses, and pokes his tongue out. “Shitlord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record, arthur is incorrect, brutalism is great. i've never been to milton keynes but i know people make fun of it. i've seen pictures of the art gallery; i think i'd rather like it there. as for the town arthur & co live near... i've modelled it off gloucester (where i have actually been!), and i think arthur is 100% from somewhere near the welsh border—all that mythos, etc—but i've deliberately not named the town because i don't want to get any details wrong after having committed to a location, lol.


End file.
